


The Devil's Threeway

by Terrantalen



Series: Boosh Fics [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Porn With Plot, Sexy Times, Threesome - F/M/M, Warning: May Not Contain Actual Threesome, but not that much plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 22:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: Vince has always wanted a threeway. If Howard is part of it, well, why not?That's it, that's the fic.





	1. Chapter 1

Vince has never actually had a threeway. It isn't from lack of trying.

He's found girls before who have been interested; brightly colored, laughing tissue paper girls; dark, dangerous fuck-you-with-a-strap-on girls; girls who seem like they're as into him as they are each other; girls who want an excuse to do something wild; girls who like what Vince likes, which (for the record) is just about anything, however the other person wants, he’s not fussy about it.

Sexually omnivorous, that’s Vince Noir all over.

Yes, he's been close. Well close. Close enough to get Chapstick smudged on one cheek and neon pink lippy on the other, close enough to have fingers with turquoise nail polish going up his front and black going down his back, close enough that all he's needed is a flat surface and a door and it would have _happened_.

Something always goes wrong though.

That something is leaning over the shop counter with headphones on, scatting mindlessly and sorting paper clips. It’s fucking tragic is what it is. The bucket hat, the roll neck, the shirt that has more shades of beige in it than Vince ever realized the human eye could perceive. Looks like a paper bag filled with porridge run over by a lorry on a rainy day. Awful, really.

But Vince can never help himself. What it is, is that he’s is generous. Likes to try to help people, even when they're well beyond helping.

Howard is well beyond helping. Helping him is like trying to help a bicycle earn a doctorate. The bicycle might go to all the classes, but you're going to have to do all the work.

Howard’s his mate, though. His best mate, and Vince takes that seriously. He can't stand to watch someone starve when he's enjoying an embarrassment of riches (or whatever), so he always makes the offer, and Howard always fucks it up.

This time, though, he's pretty sure he's cracked it. He'll have his threeway and he'll help his mate out. It's simple.

First, he's got to pique Howard's interest. Should be easy. Just mention the girl. Easy peasy. Then, of course, he's got to get the girl, but that’s even easier. She's keen. Likes the look of Vince (who doesn’t?), likes the look of Howard (Vince asked three times to make absolutely sure; she does) (not that she couldn’t, but, well, Vince and Howard aren’t exactly of a piece; liking one more or less excludes you from liking the other, doesn’t it?) (apparently not). Then, and this is the difficult bit, he's got to keep Howard from fucking it all up.

Ideally, Vince won’t give him the time to. Mention there’s a girl, but don’t mention the actual deal. Howard would freak if he knew. Just get Howard and the girl back to the flat (Naboo is at a Shaman conference, so there won’t be anyone but them around if things go wrong) (not that they will) (they won’t) and let things take their natural course.

He’s pretty sure that Howard will do anything for a girl, up to and including Vince himself.

Howard will panic. Vince knows that already. He will, but it’ll be fine, because Vince is going to reassure him. It’s fine, he’s going to say, it’ll be fun, he’ll say. Just mates who did a crazy thing together one time.

Truth be told, Vince feels a little like freaking out himself, but he’s not. He’s definitely wired, but he's not nervous. Not having second thoughts. Not having strange realizations left and right. Worrying is Howard’s bit, not Vince’s. He’s sailing along as empty headed as a Barbie doll, deciding what his look should be while he organizes the shop.

Definitely should be femme, he thinks. Pink lipstick, glitter eyeshadow, full blowout on the hair. His hair is going to take positively ages tonight, he knows that much already, but he wants it to look right.

He should keep the clothes simple. Black and white, maybe... maybe a boa... maybe those holographic PVC trousers, with that see-through nylon shirt, the dog collar and... no, too much.

Simple. He has to keep it simple.

Catsuits are simple. Tough to get out of though...

He stops and starts again with the logical bit. The shoes. Always start with the shoes. Boots? Thigh highs? No, no thigh highs, too trampy (are they trampy?). What did Howard say the last time he wore thigh highs? Did he like them? Vince suddenly can’t remember. Ankle boots, then? How much glitter can he get away with before the shoes aren’t simple anymore? Should he just stick to patent leather? How high should the heel be?

High. His legs look good in a high heel, but then, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near as tall as Howard, not tonight. No, Vince should keep himself on the short side. Let Howard feel like... like Vince is...

Jesus, Vince doesn’t know how to do this.

_Howard_.

He looks at Howard again. Howard is smiling, talking to himself, no, talking to the paperclips, “Oh no you don’t, Sunny Jim! You belong under the purview of Mr. Charlie Parker, he handles you big fellas!”

What the actual fuck? What is wrong with him? Not with Howard (even though, you know, he wonders) but with himself.

He fancies Howard.

He fancies him enough for this, anyway. It wasn’t even a bump in the road when she’d brought it up. She’s a gorgeous girl, first off, really pretty. Nice hair, nice skin, good clothes, and she’s fit. So, yeah, he’d have said yes to almost anything, anyway. But Vince is aware of how quickly he agreed when she said, “What if we bring your mate into it?” with that low little rasp in her voice, like she was going to get off just suggesting it.

There was no hesitation. Not even a pause. Not even a moment to catch his breath. Vince hadn’t even stuttered. The ‘yes’ had been on his tongue faster than the thought.

_At last_ was the thought. Because he’d get his threeway, at last.

He’s always wanted to have one, and if Howard is in it, well… that’s alright. It still counts.

Howard places a jar of what look like Red Hots (they’re push pins; he’s labeled them) (probably for Vince’s sake) under a photo of a man blowing into a trumpet and wipes his hands on his corduroys in satisfaction. He slips down the headphones and checks his Walkman, like he wants to change the tape out. He bends at the waist to look at the rack beside him but when he bends over, Vince is aware that he’s actually looking at Howard’s arse and… Christ.

Vince giggles a little hysterically.

Howard looks up at him, “Something funny about taking inventory?”

Shit, is that what Vince is supposed to be doing? He’s just been moving stuff about like he usually does.

“No,” he says, grinning. “Just, what’re you doing?” Deflect. That what Vince does best. Deflect Howard’s attention.

“I’m organizing our stationery products.”

“What, again?”

“Needs must. New and improved cross-index system, Vince.”

Vince doesn’t have to fake the face he pulls. The words ‘cross-index’ make him feel like he’s taken a sip of warm piss. “What for?”

Howard’s eyes flare, he stands up straight. His tiny eyes are narrowed in Vince’s direction, “You have no appreciation for the organizational skills it takes to run this place, do you?”

Vince laughs, his hips shifting to one side, “Yeah, okay, I’m sure it’s really hard to keep all the thumbtacks in line.”

“I make it look easy, but you try doing this on your own, you’d be lost.” Howard sounds very Northern when he starts going on about organizing. Vince can’t decide if it’s turning him on or not (it definitely is), and it’s starting to get weird, because he’s sure it never used to. Howard continues on, oblivious, “I see how you keep your things, strewn about all over, willy-nilly, no thought at all. You’d be six inches deep in mismanaged stationery in a week with me gone.”

“Yeah, alright,” Vince says. There Howard goes again, getting all uptight and anal retentive. Actually, that’s pretty much his default setting. He wonders if this is also a turn-on (possibly) (probably) (again: since when?) (doesn’t matter) but Vince does know that it’s up to him to loosen Howard up.

“It’s not like the pens have panty raids on the eraser caps, do they?” he asks with a smirk, “The thumbtacks don’t get off their tits on tequila and slag off on the paperclips’ mums or anything.” There’s a twitch at the edge of Howard’s lips that’s almost a smile. He fights it down, though, and looks stern again. Vince rolls his eyes, “We don’t even use thumbtacks. What are they even good for?”

“Don’t insult the noble thumbtack.”

“Noble thumbtack?” Vince scoffs.

“Yes. Perhaps in this shop, his day has not yet come, Vince, but it will. What about when we get a new calendar? Who will you call upon then? What about when you need to hang a poster? Who’ll be there for you when those days come? The thumbtack, Vince, the thumbtack will be there. You’ll be glad of him then.”

“Whatever,” Vince says, letting his posture slip firmly into the territory of a delinquent teenager. Saying things like that is what keeps Howard from getting laid. _Should_ keep him from getting laid.

Vince knows this on a visceral level. So, he can’t explain why he suddenly wants to jump the counter and pull Howard into a highly filthy kiss (what does Howard taste like? Vince wants to know). He wants to smear his lip gloss all over Howard’s face, he wants to kiss him like he’s got no idea how to do it, like he thinks his mouth should go all over Howard’s condescending, pinched up face. He wants to suck Howard’s tongue into his mouth, he wants to make Howard silly with lust, wants him panting, gasping, clutching and grabbing, and… Shit.

They’re just looking at one another. Why?

_Think of something else_. It’s an imperative. He tries. Licorice ropes, mirrorballs, pink chewing gum, otters wearing clown shoes; they fall in and out of his head like marbles through shaving cream. _Think of something else!_

He can’t because he’s still looking at Howard.

Howard is still looking back.

How the fuck long has it been? Is it weird yet? Howard looks a little confused; his lip is doing that thing, that little curly snarl thing.

Yep, it’s weird.

Fuck.

Time isn’t doing what it’s supposed to. It’s taking a break, bunking off.

_Stop looking at him!_

And then… Vince ruffles up the back of his hair and turns back to the clothing rack.

Time starts skipping on again, his brain starts working again.

He’s touching a long, silver cape, looking at it, wondering if he should bring it upstairs with him later.

It’s like it never happened. He’s fine, it’s all fine. Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Half of these clothes were his, half of them will be again when he needs them. Naboo has a pretty loose definition of inventory control. As long as the shop looks full, he doesn’t much care if Vince takes some of the stock out for a spin every once in a while.

Eventually, the tell-tale tink of stationery sorting resumes, but Howard is quiet now, not talking to himself (or paperclips) anymore.

Vince pulls the cape off its hanger and wraps it around his shoulders. He does a spin. “Howard?”

“Yeah?”

“Fancy going out tonight?”

Howard snorts, “No thank you. I’ve got a date with a bag of crisps tonight.”

“Seriously?” Vince can’t help the bewildered incredulity that permeates his voice. He wants to get straight to talking about the girl who thinks Howard is interesting (that’s a Howard trigger word, interesting; _a girl said something you said was interesting_, just say that and watch Howard start jumping through hoops), but he can’t yet, because (as usual) Howard has derailed him. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Not a literal date,” Howard says. 

“Glad to hear you aren’t going to have it off with an empty crisp packet,” Vince says. He chances another look at Howard (he should be able to look at his best mate for fuck’s sake) and he’s just Howard again.

He puts down the pen he’s holding and leans forward across the counter. Excitement stretches his features like a demented cartoon imprint on silly putty as he says, “I’ve got a collection going.”

Vince groans, “What now?”

It almost comes from nowhere, the portfolio with photos of crisps in it. Vince wishes it would go back to the interdimensional pocket where it came from. It’s horrifying.

Howard explains it giddily as he flips through it, pointing at photos of actual fucking crisps. They’re supposed to look like people (they don’t). “That one is Don Ellis, that there is Horace Tapscott…”

“Who?”

Howard looks at Vince like he’s an idiot. “Only two of the most seminal jazz artists of our time.”

“Okay, you’ve obviously decided to go full… whatever this is,” Vince says, waving at the book like he might exorcise the demons it contains with a dismissive enough gesture, “But, Howard, this? Is mental. You can’t have a crisp collection because they sort of look like random people no one has ever heard of; it’s insane.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of flatpicking great Tony Rice.”

“No, I haven’t, and no one else has either.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve never listened to _Tone Poems!_” Howard asks with a chuckle.

Vince actually gags, because whatever the fuck that is, he wants no part of it. This is why he bloody well should have told that girl, when she asked to bring Howard in for a threeway, that it was stupid. He’s unfuckable (isn’t he?). 

Except he’s not. He’s so completely not, that Vince feels his heartrate accelerating. His palms are getting itchy.

Shit and fuck.

“Look, you have got to get out of this shop. You’ve been cooped up here too long. How long has it been, anyway, since you’ve had a proper night out?”

“I dunno, a week ago?”

Exactly a week ago. Vince had been there. That was when he’d met the threeway girl, when she’d seen Howard and asked if he was Vince’s mate, and Vince had said yeah, and she had made her offer.

“It’s time to go out again,” Vince says firmly. “We can go to the Question.”

“The place we went last week?” Howard asks without enthusiasm.

Here is where Vince needs to be quick. No point in being subtle. He just needs to get it out. Get the wheels rolling. “Yeah, why not? There was a girl there last week checking you out pretty hard. Said you’d made some interesting points.”

Howard perks up like a child hearing the bells of an ice cream trolley. “Really? What about?”

“All sorts of things,” Vince says nebulously. Howard won’t actually require specifics. “She asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want you to freak out. You know how you get. Tense like an overset jelly.”

Howard doesn’t seem to hear everything Vince says. He’s obviously planning out a conversational segue onto his crisp collection. He smiles, “Is she going to be there again?”

“Said she would,” Vince says, going nonchalant. He twists the cape in his hands, strokes the velvet interior. “But, if you don’t want to go…”

“No, yeah, why not? I’ll go. We’ll go. Let’s go.”

“Great,” Vince says. It’s easier hooking Howard than it is hooking fish. He holds out the ends of the cape, gives it a flap with his hands, “What do you think?”

Howard looks at him. His eyes comb over Vince. Vince feels it again. Time gets tired and ropy.

Howard shrugs, “Why not?”

Vince smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

Howard is ready to go within ten minutes of shutting up the shop. He changes his rollneck, puts on different corduroys, gets a different hat out of his closet and he’s done.

No sense in repackaging what works.

He uses the time he knows it will take Vince to get ready to read a little James Joyce.

He’s keen to go out now that he knows there might be a girl there, so Joyce’s prose goes a little underappreciated. It can’t be helped. 

Howard doesn’t really examine the reason for this keenness, which is based upon nothing save that Vince has said that she exists and that she thought Howard might be interesting. Vince has said nothing, after all, of what she looked like, or bothered to try and clarify which girl it was that they met last week she actually is.

It doesn’t much matter. It’s probably better, in any case, if Howard doesn’t know. Right now, he can let her be anyone he wants. She can have blonde hair, or dark, brown eyes, or blue, she can have soft features, or sharp. She can be anything Howard’s imagination wants.

Even if what Howard’s imagination wants is less definitively female than it used to be.

Change does not come quickly to Howard Moon, no sir. That’s not his way.

He’s not like Vince for whom change is routine. 

People can mold Vince into whatever they want. He gets caught up. He lets himself get convinced by image, lets himself get wrapped up in what other people want him to be. That’s what people like about him so much; that’s why he has so many friends. Vince is a mirror that will show you what you want to see.

He doesn’t do that for Howard, though. Howard has been with him long enough to see past the flash, the constant shifting. Vince disagrees with him. Vince doesn’t disagree with anyone. It’s always _yeah, cool, whatever_ with everyone else. Howard gets the real bits, the bits that don’t just nod and smile and give back the same information they’re receiving. 

He gets _Vince_, actual Vince.

And maybe a little less of actual Vince than he really wants.

Change does not come easily for Howard, but when it comes, it takes hold, like a pernicious weed. It grows out of control, and overwhelms, and it lurks, too, that change, dimly glimpsed like a jungle cat in high grass. It waits.

Because even when the change comes, it takes time for Howard to really accept it. 

He still doesn’t quite welcome the thoughts that intrude more and more often, when he’s on his own, in the night times. He gets the gist of them, though, and he knows that he wants something that he’s not quite sure how to want, let alone actually get.

So, he gets excited about faceless, nameless girls, because that still makes sense. That excitement takes him somewhere safe, a place where Change isn’t padding toward him on stealthy toes, a deep purr coiled in its hungry throat.

Howard looks at himself in his mirror, checking his look one last time. He grabs the edges of his unbuttoned shirt, pulls them taut and rolls his shoulders. He hears the words _undecorated gingerbread man_ said with a warm cockney inflection. Howard sniffs. He throws himself a wink, then instantly regrets it. He shuffles awkwardly away from his own reflection.

Vince’s clothes are all over the flat. 

It’s amazing, really, how quickly things deteriorate without Naboo there to officiate. Even if he takes Vince’s side more often than not, at least Vince respects who is ultimately the law around the flat. Without Naboo, Vince explodes like a vinegar and baking soda volcano, the kind that he and Howard made together back at school for science fair. 

The metaphor is highly apt, Howard thinks, because he can remember very well how cool the volcano looked once they’d molded and painted it, stuck the little matchstick trees on, and put up the miniature village at the edge of the diorama, right in the danger zone. That last bit had been Howard’s idea, a way to illustrate the human drama of an actual eruption. “Genius,” Vince had said of the late addition.

It had looked as perfect as two twelve-year-olds could make it. 

That was the before. He also remembers the after. Violent chemical reaction, ooze spilling over the side, then nothing but soggy, painted papier-mâché. A complete mess in every practical sense.

It’s Vince in reverse, really. Vince is chaos distilled into something that makes only the vaguest sort of sense.

Vince wants to try and do everything. He’s like the film playing on the tunnel in the boat scene in Willy Wonka, all technicolor madness, motion and action, with no pause for self-interpretation. Howard knows this about his mate. Vince is a hologram projected onto the back of a magpie’s eyelid. He sees the world through a filter of _let’s try that_ that fills Howard with a frank terror. 

Howard is steady. A bedrock upon which things can be built. A thinker, a planner, an organizer. He’s dependable.

Change does not come quickly to Howard Moon. It never will.

Howard walks through the wreck of the flat, stepping over boots and trousers, skirts and catsuits. There are enough scarves and ties to outfit the entirety of Camden. There is a peacock feather lying next to a sequined jacket. Howard reaches for the feather, but then diverts to the jacket. He picks it up and shakes his head.

Despite the clothes everywhere, the door to Vince’s room is shut. Howard walks toward it and smells the slightly warm scent of hair that is being teased with a flatiron, the vague perfume of makeup, a sharper scent like acetone. These are the scents of Vince crawling his way out of his pupae.

Howard wonders who he’ll see when Vince finally emerges. A punk? A glam rocker? A goth? A Bollywood lollipop man? It’s impossible to know. It’s a game of _Guess Who?_ with infinite possibilities. Does he have glasses? Does he wear a dress? Does he have a purple tie?

The little doors will flip down one by one and Howard will know who Vince is for the night by the end of it.

He knocks on the door, “Vince.”

“Almost ready,” Vince says. He says it like Howard is bothering him in the middle of some enormously complex and deadly procedure, like he’s in there saving someone’s life with a triple-bypass and Howard is a child with the nerve to ask for a toy from the gift shop.

Howard knows that’s exactly how Vince views his reconstruction; the highest art he has to offer, the best trick he can do, putting on scarves, belts, and bandannas in combinations beyond counting.

Annoyance blisters through Howard like a rhino. He knows what Vince is really doing. Playing about with little brushes and bottles of hairspray, recreating himself for someone else. “There a reason why all your stuff is all over the flat?”

“I needed to spread out a little.”

“Yeah, well, if I end up with a lady friend this evening,” Howard actively hopes he will, “I can’t bring her back to this, can I?” he asks. His gaze travels the entire breadth of the flat, across the apocalyptic wasteland of rejected garments like Vince is there to see the damning glare in his eyes.

“Whatever,” Vince says, and it’s that bratty, East End sounding _whatever_ that hasn’t got the T in. “I’ll clean it up before we leave, alright?”

“Let’s make it snappy, shall we?” Howard says, looking at his watch just to confirm what he already knows. Vince has been getting ready for the past three hours. Not quite a personal best, but for a simple night out, it seems a little extreme.

Vince doesn’t reply.

Howard takes the sparkly jacket that’s in his hand and folds it. Vince doesn’t fold. He’s got enough closet space to keep a juggernaut in. Technically, the room part of Vince’s room is meant to be the closet; where he actually sleeps is barely large enough to accommodate the pile of old sofa cushions he’s stacked up into a mattress. He sleeps curled like a cat every night, and about as soundly.

Howard’s room is a proper room, with books on shelves, a desk, a record player and all, not a gigantic altar to the shifting tides of vanity.

Howard knocks on the door again, impatient for no discernable reason, “Vince!”

“Alright,” Vince says. Howard can hear him pushing through the forest of clothes on the other side of the door. Howard feels that thing in his chest, that thing like anticipation that coils around his lungs and makes it just a little difficult to breathe before Vince reveals himself.

The door cracks, and Vince is there, a column of shining black PVC, going all the way up; the boots, the trousers, the shirt. It goes without saying that it’s all tight. 

The shirt is buttoned in a mostly theoretical sense. The three bottommost buttons have been done, anyway, but the top gapes and forms a deep V which frames a silver pendant of concentric circles. The pendant hangs on a silver chain that glimmers against Vince’s pale skin.

Howard continues looking up.

Vince’s face.

There’s always a moment.

Of noise.

Like a squeal of trumpet, like a fizz of cymbal.

When Howard looks at Vince’s face.

Tonight, it sounds like the softest plunk of a B natural, coming sedately on the heels of a C sharp. He can hear it falling away, whispering incoherently.

That’s what Howard thinks when he sees the pink shine of Vince’s mouth, the silver eyeshadow sparkling atop the black eyeliner that encircles Vince’s eyes. Vince’s eyes look like blue raspberry sweets, like only chemicals and corn syrup could make something that blue.

His hair is wild, thick and gorgeous. His fringe teases across his brow.

_His eyes, his eyes, his eyes_ are all Howard can think about. They sit just beneath that fringe, glimmering like synthetic sapphires. 

Howard feels something like a cat shifting its shoulders before a pounce.

Howard and Vince stand too close for a moment, and then Vince brushes by him and starts picking up clothes off the floor, the sofa, the counters, literally everywhere. He grumbles as he does it, sighs and rolls his eyes. _See what I do for you?_ his whole body asks Howard.

Howard sees, even when he pretends he doesn’t.

Last of all, Vince takes the folded jacket out of Howard’s hands. Vince’s wrist snaps and the jacket unfolds, sparkling like a mirrorball as he tosses it atop the pile of clothes he’s carrying. He struggles to fit through the door. The mountain of fabric sways unnervingly, like the neck of a drunken giraffe, as Vince wobbles through the door.

Vince tosses the pile down, wipes his hands on the shiny pleather that is skimming his upper thighs like a coat of body paint, and then shuts the door to his room. He looks at Howard, “Alright?”

“Yeah, better,” Howard says.

“Great, let’s go then,” Vince says. He sways a little when he walks and Howard knows it’s going to be one of _those_ nights for Vince, which is somehow even worse for Howard. 

It’s possible, is the thing. With Vince, anything is possible. 

_Guess Who?_

They’ve never talked about it, but Howard knows that, sometimes, Vince has it off with blokes. Howard caught him at it, once. 

It was in the loo at a club and Howard had gone in to take a piss. He’d not realized immediately, what he was seeing, that it was Vince on his knees giving some arsehole head like he’d done it a million times. 

Vince didn’t notice him; he was too busy slurping up the underside of the other man’s cock like it was a melting ice lolly, but his partner did. He saw Howard before he tossed his head back and grabbed a handful of Vince’s hair.

That’s what seemed the worst to Howard. The sight of that man’s fingers running through Vince’s hair like he was fucking _allowed_ to do it. The tiny stab of hate that he felt for that man is still there, like a splinter lodged just under his skin. He still hates him for not bursting into flames the second he shoved his hand into the forbidden crown of onyx hair that is meant only to be admired from afar.

Howard didn’t stay to see if Vince swatted the man’s hand away, or if he stopped sucking him off and started telling him off instead. He just turned on his heel and walked away as quickly as he could.

He did not ask himself _why not me?_

He will never ask himself that question, because there is a simple answer.

Howard doesn’t want it, not really. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t. 

He thinks of the sodden, ruined volcano again. That’s what would happen. 

Explosion, mess, regret, bin it. Four quick and easy steps to over.

_Not worth it._

Vince scoops up the silver cape he’d been toying with down in the shop and wraps it around his shoulders. He looks like a glam bisexual vampire from outer space, which isn’t that far from the truth.

Howard looks like a geography teacher about to do a unit on the south pacific, and that’s not that far from the truth either. 

There is no world in which they would make sense as anything other than what they already are, and they make small enough sense as what they are already.

Vince tosses his hair and it floats rather than falls toward his shoulders as he stills. He turns, “Coming, Howard?” he asks.

Howard nods and they go.


	3. Chapter 3

The Question is loud. It was loud last time with Bollo behind the turntables, but this time, it seems a little extra loud, like the DJ tonight _actually hates_ the idea of people over fifty being able to hear.

That’s fine, though, because Vince likes being able to feel the music in his throat, or so he does normally. Tonight he doesn’t really give a shit. He just wants to get this over with.

That’s not totally true. He wants to get this bit over with. The pretense bit. He very much wants the other bit to last. He wants _that_ to last all night. 

Howard is being extra Howard. Yelling at him for making a mess of the flat, complaining that they never go to clubs where they play good music, telling him stories about obscure funk operas and slap bassists. It’s like he knows what he’s doing to Vince all the sudden. Like he knows that he’s making Vince wild with every word.

Vince’s outfit is screaming like a toddler after a sweet. It’s tantruming so that Vince doesn’t have to. _This is what I want_ the outfit yells. 

What he wants is to get treated (by Howard) like he’s cheap and easy, like he’s a one-nighter, like they can have sex with each other (also with a girl) and have it not mean anything beyond the _ohfuckyes_ of it. 

It’s a good look. It better be, it took enough time. He put on almost as many clothes as he had available before he settled on the full black fuck-toy look that he ended up with. The cape softens it up a little, makes him look quirky rather than out and out slutty. The glitter over his eyes has already started to flake. Some of it has settled on his cheeks like a dusting of snow. He sees it sparkling in the lights of the club. 

His hair is part Joan Jett, part Peter Criss, all Vince Noir. It’s genius and he knows it.

He knows it because people are turning his way. They’re watching Vince Noir make his entrance, and Vince can tell it’s worth watching. 

He smirks, his eyes flick toward Howard. _See?_ he asks, _everyone wants to fuck me, it’s alright if you do too_ (does he? Vince hopes so). Howard only looks back at him blankly, like he can’t read what’s in Vince’s head (he probably can’t) (what if he can’t?).

That’s alright for now, but once _it_ starts, he’s going to need Howard to be able to read him. He’s going to need Howard to know (without Vince having to say) that it won’t change anything if they don’t want it to. 

Vince has to believe that it’s going to be like a crimp. They’ll just fall into each other like two circles of oil floating atop water, their edges will touch they’ll suddenly be a squash-shaped oil slick, wobbly edges and smooth lines; one piece made of two.

Vince hasn’t got a whole lot of experience with sucking cock coinciding with friendship. It’s the sort of activity that lends itself to a brief acquaintance. He’s pretty sure, though, that people can fuck and still be mates after.

Truth be told, Vince doesn’t usually stay with anyone for more than the time it takes them both to get off.

Girls, he’ll take out, have dinner with, do silly, snuggly stuff with (if they want), but it’s over when it’s over, and Vince always knows when it’s over.

Guys, though.

Mostly, he’s just seen someone at a club, snuck into the loos and given some head. Sucking cock is so straightforward. Not a whole lot to think about. Just slip the thing past your lips, give it a few pumps, and whizzbang, enjoy the fireworks.

He likes giving head. A confidence boost is what it is. Semen is so expressive. _I love you_ this _much_. He likes giving head very much.

And he likes doing it where someone else might see.

Vince is a champion cottager. He’s spent practically his whole cock-sucking career that way. The exhibitionist in him goes mental for sex in semi-public spaces. Some of his favorite wank material comes from the times he’s been caught at it by someone popping into the loos at the wrong (or right) moment.

He’s done it with girls too (when he finds one who wants to), but he particularly likes how it feels when someone else sees him with a prick in his mouth (Howard’s prick in his mouth, tonight). _Yeah, I do this too_ he thinks, when someone catches him out, and it feels like an electric connection straight to his cock. 

He knows how he wants it to happen tonight. They’ll be at the (spic and span) flat. He’ll look at the girl first, see her watching him (them). Then, he’ll look up at Howard (with a smile like the Cheshire Cat) and he’ll let that girl watch him suck off his best mate, let her (but not Howard) see how much he wants to do it. 

He’s positively itching to do it.

Vince feels a plunge in his belly like he’s on a rollercoaster going over a dropoff. 

He hopes she’ll want to watch.

He starts looking for her with determination. He wants later to be _now_ so badly that he can barely stand it. Howard is following him at a distance of no more than a few inches, looming like a tiki-bar patterned Frankenstein (Frankenstein’s Monster; whatever) behind him.

The people around them are bright colored confetti baked into a birthday cake. There are girls left and right who look at Vince as he slides past, but he doesn’t make eye contact with any of them. He’s looking for _the_ girl, the girl who is going to make all his dreams come true.

The devil’s threeway. Tonight.

“Is she here?” Howard asks at Vince’s back, sounding almost as eager as Vince feels. 

“Relax, will you?” he answers with a flare of something dark in his throat. He’s annoyed that he can’t find the girl, annoyed that Howard is so keen (no, that’s not right); he’s just frustrated that he’s in this club and not where he wants to be (his room, Howard’s room, the sofa, wherever), “Listen, she’s here somewhere. Just, don’t get weird, yeah?”

“Weird? No, sir. I’m Mr. Cool tonight, Mr. Ice Cold, Mr. Freeze, Mr. Ice Malt, Mr. Malt Loaf.”

Vince turns around and gives Howard a look of absolute horror, “Don’t be doing that. You are acting well weird.”

“Word play, Vince. Just warming myself up for some good conversation. Good conversation is the most effective aphrodisiac known to man.”

“No, it isn’t. Cloisters are an aphrodisiac.”

“I think you mean oysters, there, Vince.”

“No, I mean the little snot monsters that come out of shells.”

“Those are oysters. Cloisters are where you keep nuns.”

Vince rolls his eyes, “Whatever. You know what I mean. Just… when we find her, try to shut up as much as possible, alright?” Vince freezes, puts a hand onto Howard’s chest. He smiles, “There she is.” He points toward where she sits on a U-shaped couch, smack in the middle of it, like she wants to be the space in an umlaut (she does). Howard looks over Vince’s shoulder and there is a moment when Howard’s breath dusts Vince’s cheek and Vince wants to turn toward that breath and take Howard’s face into his hands and—

Vince waves at the girl.

She smiles, pink lips parting like a tent flap in front of a fantastic circus (everything you want is right here, the greatest show on earth) and Vince pulls Howard toward her. 

She looks good. She matches Vince, even. Black mini dress with spiky heeled boots, a neon pink jacket across her shoulders (matches her lipstick), her platinum hair teased up like she’s Debbie Harry. She does it for Vince, and, yeah, she’s doing it for Howard, Vince can tell. He’s got one of those idiot smiles on. The first thing Howard says is going to be awkward, terrible, or both. 

Vince can hardly wait.

“Hey,” he says with a nod, “Howard, Sandy, Sandy, Howard.”

Sandy leans back, cocks her head to the side and twitches her fingers in a little wave, “Hi,” she says. She bites her bottom lip and Vince feels his own smile go filthy. 

Howard is gob smacked. Vince elbows him.

“Hello, young lady,” Howard says, like he’s Father fucking Christmas and Sandy is a six-year-old about to burst into tears rather than get her photo taken with him, “and how are you this fine evening?” Howard’s whole person lists to the side like a capsizing boat, his mouth goes flat.

_Fuck yes_.

Vince widens his eyes like he’s embarrassed, “So, Sandy,” he says easing himself onto the couch next to her and looking at the empty seat on the other side of her like Howard should do the same (he does), “All right?”

“Wonderful now that I’ve got somebody to keep me company.”

“And company you shall be kept,” Howard says.

Sandy laughs, leans toward Howard and places a hand on his knee, “You’re sweet,” she says. “I like sweet boys.”

“Sweet like candy, that’s me, yessir, just call me the candy man.”

Sandy really seems to like this (should they start a club? The stupid-things-Howard-Moon-says fanclub?) and she leans further into Howard, her body pressing against his arm. Howard looks captivated.

“Alright, candy man,” Vince says, wanting to ensure that he isn’t forgotten.

Sandy’s eyes slide toward Vince and take a slow stroll over his body. “Your flat is near here, yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah, couple blocks.”

“It’s loud in here, don’t you think?” she says, asking both of them, “Might be nice to go somewhere more quiet.”

“Cool, yeah,” Vince says.

Howard doesn’t seem to understand what Sandy is saying immediately, because he remains frozen on the couch, staring at the place where Sandy’s arm has landed on his shoulder. 

“Howard,” Vince says, and Howard looks at him like Vince is a hallucination, “Don’t you think the flat might be quieter?”

“Yes. Uh, yes. Our flat? The one where _we_ live. Yes. It’s quieter than this place, absolutely, yes.” He hops up, does a complete 360 spin, then reaches for Sandy’s hand and helps her to stand.

She’s shorter than both of them, even in her heels. She stays between them (a safety net for a high wire act). She folds one arm into Howard’s, reaches for Vince with the other, and then they’re walking like they’re off on the Yellow Brick Road.

Vince worries the entire way home that Howard is going to notice that they are very much a threesome (he doesn’t). He’s too wrapped up in talking to Sandy. She’s not at all put off by the vibe Howard is giving off (fifty percent nervous virgin, fifty percent country pedophile) nor does she seem to care that they spend half the walk home listening to Howard talk about the pros and cons of different styles of Birkenstocks. 

By the time they get to the shop to let themselves upstairs, Vince is half-hard. The trousers are making it obvious. Sandy sees and licks her lips.

Howard, though, notices nothing. He’s just looking at Sandy. 

Vince leans against the closed shutter while Howard fiddles with the door. He lets the cape slip open. _Look at me, Howard._

Howard pops the lock on the door, “After you,” he says to Sandy. He follows her in and doesn’t even seem to realize Vince hasn’t immediately come too.

Shit, fuck, balls.

Vince pushes off from the wall, goes inside.

They go up the stairs, Howard first, Sandy second, Vince last of all. Vince takes Sandy’s jacket and hangs it on a peg while Howard offers to make drinks. Sandy sits on the couch, bang in the middle again, but Vince doesn’t sit next to her. He sits in the chair. 

Correction; he melts into the chair like a snowman during a heatwave, lets his legs stretch out in front of him like one-way lanes (directly to his cock). He twines a bit of his hair around his finger.

Sandy is eye-fucking him hard enough that Vince wishes she would use lube.

He wills Howard to look at him (actually _look_) as Howard hands him his drink. 

Howard does, but it’s not like he’s perusing, it’s like he’s looking at wallpaper. 

It stings.

It is only then that Vince realizes (idiot), that all of this (the hair, the clothes, the makeup) is for Howard.

And he doesn’t see it. 

Shit, shit, and shit.

Howard takes his place next to Sandy. She takes a sip of her drink then sets it down on the coffee table. Her hand perches on Howard’s knee again, her fingers pick at the corduroy. She tilts her face toward him. Time is slow, slow, slow.

Her lips rise like clouds of fallout as she draws them into a pucker. Her dress rides up her thigh as she leans, closer, closer toward Howard. Vince can’t stand it (this is why they’re here) this isn’t how he wanted it (did he think it would go any differently?) he should have known. 

_Press pause, press stop, press rewind, go back._

“Hey, Howard?” Vince says abruptly.

Howard’s attention snaps to Vince. Sandy’s kiss terminates like a popped soap bubble. 

“Can I have a word?”

Howard mumbles an apology to Sandy then follows Vince down the hall.

This is meant to be the bit where Vince asks him what he’s doing, the bit where Vince tells him how he’s fucking up, the bit where Howard will nod and then go back out there and proceed to fuck up some more, because that’s how this _works_.

This is not that bit.

Vince leans back against the wall. He brushes his fringe out of his eyes. “Listen, Howard—”

“Going well, isn’t it?” Howard asks before Vince can finish his sentence. He’s so bloody chuffed that Vince wants to cry. 

“Yeah, great. Sure.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

Vince shakes his head, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Howard’s face is pinchy again. He’s squinting his eyes down to slivers, “No, something is wrong. What is it?”

Vince laughs bitterly. Trust Howard to notice something is wrong when Vince doesn’t want him to. “Nothing,” he insists. He hesitates. “Look, I’ve just got something I need to tell you.”

“Okay, well, could it wait, maybe, because—”

“No, it can’t wait. You were just concerned about me a moment ago!”

“Yeah, and you said you were fine. Twice. Honestly, Vince, I don’t know what—”

“She wants a threeway!” Vince blurts with absolutely no finesse. He has to say it like that because he wants all this bloody stupid ridiculousness to stop. Shouting at Howard for no reason, feeling like he’s been rejected before he actually has been, getting ignored by his best mate when this was supposed to be _something else_ (what was it supposed to be, Vince?) (don’t fucking ask).

Howard is stunned to silence. He gapes at Vince. He gapes at the wall. He gapes at the carpet. He gapes at a superimposed grandfather clock that ticks away the seconds that Howard stands there in silence. Vince doesn’t fucking know, but he knows that Howard is shocked.

“A threeway?” Howard asks, his voice a whisper. “With?”

“Us. The two of us.”

Howard’s eyes go so wide and terrified that Vince thinks they’ll fall out and roll away (he keeps a weather eye on the floor, just in case). Howard makes a squeaky noise, like an unoiled door hinge.

“I should have said before,” Vince says, “I just… Look, we don’t have to.”

There is a gurgle in Howard’s throat. 

“You sound like a backed-up drain. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Howard hisses. 

“Tell her to clear off, shall I?” Vince asks. He watches Howard remain as motionless as a three-days dead rabbit on a roadside. “Alright.” He turns to go back toward the living room.

“No,” Howard gasps. “No. She… we… let’s…” he nods and looks down the hall. “I mean, you want to, right?”

Vince freezes (what the fuck for?) and then he blinks. “Uh, yeah.” 

Howard looks over Vince, quick smart (like he doesn’t want to get caught doing it) before he nods again. “Then let’s…”

“Cool, alright, yeah. Cool.” Because what else can he say? This is exactly what he wanted (of course it is) (isn’t it?) It’s closer, anyway. Howard is paying attention now, at least.

“Uh,” Howard asks.

Vince shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.

Howard (sort of) smiles. 

Vince (sort of) smiles too.

They walk back to the living room. Sandy is still there. She’s looking at them both like she finds this whole thing funny. 

Vince wipes his palms on his trousers. Thing about PVC, though, is that it doesn’t absorb anything. He just smears sweaty handprints over the shine. He turns to Howard and does a thing that he regrets the instant he does it; he takes Howard’s hand and kisses it.

Howard’s eyes creep toward him (WHAT THE FUCK!? they scream) but he keeps holding Vince’s hand. He lets Vince lead him back toward Sandy and the couch.

“All set, lads?” she asks, grinning.

“Yeah,” Vince says.

“Yessir,” Howard says at the same time. 

Sounds like _yeahssir._

When they sit, Vince is in the middle this time. He looks from one side of him (pretty girl) to the other (best mate). Everyone knows what’s supposed to happen now. Vince isn’t going to wait for Howard to make the first move and he doesn’t want Sandy to make the first move, so…

“We’ll,” Vince swallows before he looks at Howard, “get started, yeah?”

“By all means,” Sandy says.

Vince shifts himself on the couch so that Sandy is at his back and he’s facing Howard. Howard looks as pleased as an antelope about to be eaten by a lion (Vince sees golden fur sprout from his own skin, his hands turn to paws and his retractable claws flex out like deadly hooks) before Howard closes his eyes. 

Vince doesn’t close his. He lets them droop, lets the lids get heavy, as he leans over Howard (his canines elongate, his tongue grows wide, rough and flat), but he keeps his eyes open, because in spite of how wrong this is going (well wrong), he wants to see what Howard’s face does when he kisses him.

His hands land on Howard’s shoulders as gently as blue birds on Snow White (but the claws are still there, and they dig in) and Howard sucks in a breath (he feels them), holds it. _Don’t kill me, I’ve got so much to give_, but it’s too late, Vince’s claws are sunk deep and the lion doesn’t give up his prey.

Vince licks his lips, tastes strawberries (his lipstick), and leans forward. His chest draws level with Howard’s, but it’s Howard’s belly he feels first, pressing back against Vince’s navel. Vince angles his face down so that his nose drags across Howard’s moustache, so that he can smell the scent of Howard’s skin (aftershave), then Vince’s chin and Howard’s chin (rough, stubbly) make contact. He tilts his head to the left and, like a red balloon floating down toward a still pond, their lips touch.

Howard’s face is doing a thing, Vince thinks, but he’s not sure how to categorize it. It doesn’t look like he hates having Vince’s lips on his, anyway (that’s probably the best Vince can hope for) but he wants more than just _not hate_. 

He presses forward even further, moves his hands from Howard’s shoulders to either side of his neck so that Vince’s index fingers tuck behind Howard’s ears, so that Vince can feel Howard’s body lining up underneath his, and then Vince opens his mouth and runs his tongue over Howard’s top lip, lets his teeth chase after it, sucks at Howard’s bottom lip, swipes over it with his tongue and then Vince withdraws.

It’s not lost on him that Howard did nothing in response.

He sits back, looking downward (the couch is ruby colored crushed velvet, he stares at it trying to see shapes in the light and dark patches; he spots a dog, a rabbit, and a spaceship) until he can make himself look at Howard again.

His eyes are still closed. He looks like he’s dreaming. Vince isn’t sure if it’s a good dream or not.

Howard opens his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

The world looks a little different all the sudden.

Like everything has shifted just a millimeter to the left.

Like something small, massive thing has changed.

Vince’s lips taste like candy. He smells like hair product. He feels… how again?

Howard realizes he doesn’t know because he didn’t actually touch him, not actively anyway.

Howard feels too cold all the sudden, and he realizes it’s because he already misses Vince’s body heat. 

Howard realizes a lot of things, all at once.

Vince is watching him, his huge eyes even larger than normal. Vats of blue ice to drown in. _Drown in me, Howard_.

_Is that what you want?_

Tonight, Howard knows, that is what Vince wants. He sees it now and it is unmissable. It’s like a neon elephant in a dark carpark. Like a great white shark in a bathtub. Like Vince in the mirrorball suit.

Will he want it tomorrow, though?

Howard doesn’t know.

Then Howard notices Sandy looking at him and he remembers that it’s too late. He’s already said he wants this to happen. He realizes, too, that it’s safer, somehow, with someone else there. Howard can give Vince what he wants without having to think about an after. It can just be because of Sandy, at the end of the night.

If that’s what Howard wants. If that’s what Vince wants.

Howard isn’t the most experienced of men, nor the most confident, yet he reaches for Vince just the same, his hand grips Vince’s upper arm and he gives him a little tug and then Vince flies at him like a springing tiger.

This time, when their lips touch, Howard is ready. He opens his mouth for Vince. Vince moans, his tongue slicks against Howard’s, his teeth pull at Howard’s lips, his body lays flat over Howard and Howard wraps his arms around him, holds Vince _right where he is_ because he cannot stand the thought that Vince might go anywhere else.

Vince’s hands are like Marco Polo exploring the globe. They go all over Howard. They knock his hat off and end up in Howard’s hair, they fist themselves into Howard’s shirt, they pluck at Howard’s trousers, they fiddle with Howard’s buttons, they wrap around Howard’s back, they pull at his sides.

Howard just holds Vince at the small of his back. _Don’t go anywhere._

All the while they kiss.

Howard has never had another kiss like it.

Not just because Vince is a man—which he undoubtedly is; the evidence presses firm against Howard’s side—but because this kiss is just going on and on and on, like Vince cannot stop kissing him.

Howard forgets, he honestly forgets, that there is someone else in the flat with them. It feels like they are on a different plane of existence, like they’ve transcended the mortal boundary, like they are spinning webs of perfect music together.

Thelonious Monk, Howard thinks.

Gary Numan, Vince thinks back.

Talking Heads, they think together; and they float, float, float along like psychedelic soap bubbles up toward a pink horizon with nothing needing to be said between them whatsoever.

Vince’s color is warming Howard, Howard’s stability is grounding Vince. Bass and electric guitar humming gorgeously together. 

And then Howard feels another hand next to his own on Vince’s back, and, since both of Vince’s hands are present and accounted for (they’re worming their way under Howard’s arse), Howard recalls Sandy and the threeway and _oh, right_.

Vince finally breaks their kiss. His lipstick is absurdly smudged (like a Warhol Marilyn Monroe), his expression is a mirror of Howard’s. 

They’d both forgotten her.

Vince turns toward her. 

Sandy takes Vince’s lips with a hungry ferocity that Howard doesn’t think he could match. He feels a twinge of something like displeasure, because Vince is already hard, and it was Howard who made him that way. He’s earned that for himself, and it’s none of Sandy’s business to be kissing Vince, not right now anyway. Excuse or no excuse, Howard doesn’t want her there any more.

Vince’s response to her is tepid at best, but he’s going along, just like he always bloody does, only not this time. Howard rolls him away from Sandy, onto his back. Vince hits the sofa with an ‘oof’.

Howard turns toward Sandy to tell her that she really ought to go, but then she’s kissing Howard as hungrily as she was kissing Vince a moment earlier.

\--

Sandy’s lips are pulling at Vince’s and it’s not like kissing Howard (Sandy obviously has more experience, for one) but then Vince feels himself being moved, and it’s Howard who is shifting him off to the side, setting him down at the other end of the sofa.

It looks like Howard is about to tell Sandy off, but he doesn’t get the chance, because she’s voracious and she kisses Howard before he can utter a word.

His arms do that little flappy thing, like he’s a bird that’s been stunned in midflight, but they eventually still.

Vince knows then that this (the threeway) could really happen. If he wants it to.

Howard will do it.

But watching Sandy kiss Howard is like watching Howard do a crimp with someone who isn’t Vince and Vince hates it with a sudden and unfamiliar intensity. 

Vince touches Sandy’s arm and she comes for him again, but he’s expecting it this time and he dodges her. He smiles at her a little apologetically (it isn’t her fault, after all) before he glances at Howard to confirm that he’s about to do the right thing.

“Look, Sandy, we think you’re great, but—”

“Yeah, you should go,” Howard finishes.

Sandy sighs a deep and infinite sigh. “I could just watch,” she offers.

Vince feels his cock respond to this suggestion, but he doesn’t want that either. Not tonight anyway. Tonight is meant just for him and Howard. “Sorry,” Vince says.

She puts a hand on each of their cheeks. Their faces are bracketed together within her arms. “Don’t get up,” she says. She smiles at them and gives each of them a pat on the cheek. She stands, “I can show myself out.”

She grabs her pink jacket and heads down the stairs. The shop door tings as she goes outside.

Vince and Howard are alone. They look at each other.

Howard’s mouth is a mess of pink lipstick (Vince’s and Sandy’s), his hair is fluffed out from Vince’s hands combing through it. He looks like a transvestite Einstein given a tube of lipstick for the first time, like he’s just gone _out of his mind_ with it. He looks a right mess.

Vince starts to giggle.

“Something funny?” Howard asks, and, yeah, there is; so Vince laughs harder, and then Howard starts to laugh, and then they’ve both gone silly, and they lose it for a while.

But it trickles out. The laughter stops. Vince looks at Howard again.

Howard dips his head down, “So…” 

He can be shockingly eloquent sometimes. 

“Yeah,” Vince agrees.

“Then?”

Vince swallows. He’s got his knees tucked under him on the sofa, Howard is turned so that he’s mostly facing away from Vince, but he’s looking back at him. They are both still dressed (though, in Vince’s case, that’s mostly an academic distinction) and now that Sandy is gone, there is no more pretending.

This is this. This is _This_, and it’s monumental. 

This won’t be just fucking your best mate for kicks.

This is going to mean something.

(What?)

Vince wishes for Sandy back like a security blanket discarded in the light of dawn and missed by bedtime.

He needs her.

_No, he doesn’t._

His fingers reach for Howard. He watches them as they go, wanting to cry a little. They are pilgrims braving unfriendly seas and near starvation for a chance to settle somewhere better than they are now. They brush against Howard’s sleeve.

Vince is touching a candy floss dream that will crumble under his hand.

No, he’s touching Howard.

And Howard Moon does not flake away to nothing under the lightest possible touch.

(He honestly doesn’t.)

He leans over Vince this time, a hiccup of hesitation before he kisses him. Vince smiles into the kiss, because it’s there again, the thing that apparently happens when Howard Moon kisses Vince Noir.

Dark stars bursting like Pop Rocks in the night sky (you can’t see them) (but you know they’re there), ragged synth violins playing notes that cut Vince open like a flayed toad (Gary Numan, after all), bliss in less than five hundred characters.

_Howard._

Vince’s thighs slide apart (in case Howard wants to see how he fits there) as he lays down on his back. He keeps an arm wrapped around the back of Howard’s neck to encourage him down, and Howard follows him. His body settles over Vince’s like the warmest ever pashmina.

He knows that Howard can feel him, his cock; it’s had a wild night already, a lot of ups and downs; but it’s definitely up again, and aching, and wondering if Vince is finally going to get someone to help it out. 

Vince can feel Howard too, and that lights Vince up like he’s made of radium.

He wiggles his hips under Howard’s and the ache turns into a thrum.

Above him, Howard gasps, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he drives down onto Vince, and Vince groans because it feels _sofuckinggood_. 

Their cocks together. 

Vince’s hand. 

They have a fucking date with destiny.

Vince rolls his hips so that Howard is forced up enough for Vince to work his hand between them and then he’s working on Howard’s fly (getting the button undone, getting the zip down) scrabbling at Howard’s pants (they’ve got to fucking go, too) pushing the whole kit off Howard’s hips. 

He grabs Howard’s naked ass (quick feel up, can’t help it) before he goes for his own trousers.

They are well near impossible to get off (he’s always got to wear such tight trousers everywhere he goes, always forgets that _they do not like to come off_ when he’s got an erection the size of the fucking Eiffel Tower in them) (his cock isn’t _that_ big) (feels like it, though).

Howard pulls back, stops kissing him, helps him with the trousers (cheers, mate) and then looks over Vince. Doesn’t skip the cock, either, but he’s looking at Vince’s shirt. 

Vince sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, then, one by one, he undoes the buttons of his shirt, because might as well.

Vince hasn’t been completely naked for a partner in years.

Technically, he’s not now, either. His trousers are still bunched near his ankles (his boots are still on too) but he feels naked when he peels the shirt back and lets Howard see the sparse, dark hair on his chest, the hair that lightly rings his nipples. He feels exposed.

Howard touches him (softly) at his hip.

“Howard,” Vince moans, because _come on_.

Their eyes meet again. Howard leans over Vince again. This time their naked cocks bump against each other and then Howard is frotting him and _alright_ that’s a way, for sure, but not the way Vince wants. 

He tries to sit up, Howard feels him moving and doesn’t try to stop him, he just lets Vince dictate how they should be positioned. Vince grabs the bottom of Howard’s rollneck and pulls the whole mess of an outfit over Howard’s head. He throws it on the floor and grins (Cheshire Cat at last) before he stands. He kicks off his boots, pulls his trousers off, and grabs Howard’s hand. 

He pulls him down the hallway to his room. Howard looks confused for a moment before Vince opens the door and then Howard looks completely stunned.

He doesn’t know about the little bit of work Naboo did for Vince.

“Genius, right?” Vince asks.

There is a circular bed in the middle of the room, blankets and pillows in a hundred different colors are all over it. There’s a washstand with a mirror (like a consumptive Victorian lady would have) in the corner, two plush papasan chairs underneath a glimmering Moorish lantern, and so many thick carpets on the floor that it’s soft enough to sleep on (Vince has checked).

“This isn’t your room,” Howard says. “Your room is a Top Shop storehouse. You sleep in a closet.”

Vince laughs, “Yeah, well, that was before Naboo did his thing. I’ve got two rooms now. Day Room and Night Room. Welcome to Night Room, Howard.”

“Unbelievable. Naboo has never offered to enchant my room.”

“You don’t need it. Your room is an army general’s wet dream. All pea-soup green and organized. It looks like you keep a stamp collection, Howard.”

“My room looks like I keep a stamp collection?”

“Yeah.” Vince smiles, “So does the rest of you.”

Howard’s eyebrows draw toward one another, his eyes go squinty. He's adding something up. “Like that, do you?”

Vince looks down at the floor, tilts his head to the side, looks up at Howard, shrugs, pinches his tongue between his canines. He’s naked, and hard, and positively turned on by the thought of Howard bent over a desk with a razor knife and tweezers, lifting stamps off old envelopes.

The human mind is a mysterious fucking place.

“I do,” Howard says, voice low, “I’m a philatelist.”

Vince can't even make the joke that he knows is there. His brain is a border collie fed cocaine and shown photos of sheep. It scrambles (frantic, crazed, wild) searching for purchase.

“A what?”

“A stamp collector," Howard says slowly (Vince licks his lips) (oh Jesus, oh God, oh...) "I have a collection of stamps. I keep them in a special book, in a special case, in a special drawer of my dresser.”

“Fuck,” Vince groans. He can't fucking take it. He lunges toward Howard, just _wanting it_ (him) (stamps, jazz, sandals worn with socks) so fucking badly.

He has to jump (how the fuck tall _is_ Howard anyway?) because without shoes, Vince is like a garden gnome next to Big Ben, and there isn’t any way he can kiss Howard without extreme measures being taken. Howard catches him, and Vince’s arms wrap around Howard’s neck, and his legs wrap around Howard’s hips, and they go down onto Vince’s bed with Vince on top.

He snogs Howard like he’s got Top Shop vouchers on his tonsils and Vince needs to tongue them out. Howard keens and moans and sounds so pretty, Vince absolutely cannot stop.

He’s straddling Howard like he’s going to ride him (wait, is he?) (fuck, he wants to), Howard’s got his hands on Vince’s hips, on his arse, on his thighs. 

They are dry humping again, only it’s vicious this time, how right it feels. Vince knows that he’s got lube and condoms in his washstand, but the washstand is _there_ and he’s _here_ and he hasn’t got a whole lot of desire to go anywhere else right now.

Not when Howard is being so perfect. 

So, Vince spits into his palm and goes with Option 1. He reaches down between them, his hand gathering their cocks together in a bundle that just barely fits in his closed fist, and Vince pumps them both with saliva and precum.

Howard slips a hand between their hips and he cups Vince’s balls, and Vince isn’t expecting it, and _ohfuckyes_, he comes (expressively) (I love you _this_ much).

_“Howard!”_ he shouts (two separate, distinct syllables; How-ward!). He has to lean back, to roll up, to throw his head back, and Jesus, he wants Howard _inside of him_ and he’s delirious enough on the high of his orgasm to fall off Howard and stop touching his cock before he follows Vince to completion. He rolls over, slips off the edge of the bed.

“Vince,” Howard says (his voice is high and squeaky, desperate; _don’t do this to me_).

Vince holds up his hand. He goes to the washstand (catches his reflection in the mirror; silver eyed, beautiful mess looks back at him), opens the drawer, takes out the lube and grabs a condom. He turns back to Howard. “Should have asked. You, uh, want to, yeah? If not, I could…” he smiles, “there’s lots of things I could do if you don’t.”

It’s a moment before Howard nods and Vince slinks back to him.

Post-orgasm Vince is a lot less hasty than pre-orgasm Vince. Like this, in this glow, Vince feels like taking his time a little. He might recover, he thinks, if he gives himself a bit. Poor Howard, though, looks hard, achingly so. 

Yeah, he’d probably been just there when Vince stopped touching him.

He settles himself next to Howard on the bed. Looks down at Howard’s cock. He hasn’t taken a really proper look at it yet, but he does now, and it’s nice; uncircumcised, proportional to Howard’s frame (big, thick) (he can imagine it shooting fox in a tweed suit on a moor somewhere) (calling for Cathy Earnshaw, mad and soaking wet in a downpour), poor thing is purple too. Vince looks up his lashes at Howard’s face, smiles, “All right, Howard?”

“Vince,” Howard says again, desperate, pathetic; poor Howard. Take pity on him.

Vince takes pity.

He traces the underside of Howard’s cock with his fingertip, it bobs hopefully, and Vince traces his way back down, slips his fingers under Howard’s balls and cups them. Howard is panting. Vince rolls Howard’s balls in his hand. Howard squirms.

Vince withdraws his hand, opens the lube and squeezes out a mess of it into his palm. He closes his fist around Howard’s cock and slicks it (ungh, Howard says urgently) up and down, barely touching him, though, so that Howard doesn’t lose it before Vince is ready for him to go.

Vince opens the condom (not as easy as it would have been if he hadn’t just gotten lube all over his fingers, but what can you do?) and spins the blue ribbed disk like a sleight of hand artist doing a card trick before he slots it in the circle of his thumb and index finger and slides it onto Howard’s cock.

More lube now, over the condom first (glph, Howard intones as Vince slicks up the latex). Howard’s balls are drawn tight and Vince worries that he will come before Vince gets a chance to fuck him. He can’t rush his preparation, however; it’s been a long time since he’s done this. He has no choice but to stop touching Howard as he starts fingering himself.

Howard is staring at him while he does it, like he cannot believe what he is watching (it is unbelievable, really) (both of them naked in Vince’s Night Room) (Howard about to fuck him) (Vince’s cock waking up again) (told you) and Vince slides into himself, body buzzing.

He finds his own prostate and, “Oh, fuck,” he gasps. He’d forgotten what that felt like (Christ, it’s good).

Howard reaches for him, “Can I?” he asks.

Vince thrusts the lube at him and positions himself so that Howard will have good access and then it’s Howard’s fingers inside him, probing, searching, _finding_. “Howard, fuck, oh, Howard,” Vince moans. 

He is hard again, and Howard is going to make him come for a second time.

He knows when he’s ready. He pushes Howard’s hand away, pushes Howard down onto the bed, slings his leg across Howard’s hips and then it’s time.

There is nothing like getting fucked up the arse, particularly when Howard is letting Vince put his cock exactly where he needs it. Vince is speaking a filthy stream of nonsense, Howard is yelping with each thrust of his hips.

He reaches for Vince, and Vince leans forward so that Howard can touch him. “Can I touch—” Howard asks and Vince has no idea what he wants to touch, but the answer is yes.

Vince is surprised, then, when all Howard wants to do is touch his hair, and how he touches it (while they fuck) is like how he imagines Howard touching any of the rare, precious things he collects and organizes. He touches like his touch might spoil, he touches like his touch might harm, he touches like what he’s touching is beyond sacred; like he’s lucky to be touching it.

Holy shit.

Howard's eyes squeeze shut, his neck arches back against the bed, he makes a noise like a rusted lychgate.

Then, Howard comes apart.

His hand falls from Vince’s hair to his cock. He pulls it a handful of times and Vince’s semen explodes out onto Howard’s chest like paint laid down by Jackson Pollack.

Vince collapses on top of Howard, boneless and fucked out and completely exhausted in a way he has never felt before. He nuzzles into Howard’s neck (is Howard a cuddler?) and kisses around his throat lazily. Howard’s arm wraps around Vince’s back (right now he is). 

Vince’s breathing is ragged, Howard’s is similarly out of rhythm. They sound like the beginning of _Touch and Go_, like Howard is counting one more beat than Vince. Vince adjusts himself, ready to roll off of him, but Howard continues to hold him. Vince smiles. 

He settles over Howard, covering him like rapid growing fungus (he’ll compost Howard away, turn him to little bits of dirt) (the worms will come soon) (but he won’t let them have any). He tucks his chin against Howard’s clavicle and rests his forehead on Howard’s neck. He means to go still then, but it’s not enough. He tilts his face up and kisses Howard under his chin. 

How long he’ll get to do this, he isn’t sure, but he will do it while he can. 

The world goes wobbly. He feels it slip out from under him like the back of a cat that has had enough of being stroked. It sashays away with tail held high and looks back at him, eyes content.

There are a lot of reasons not to fall asleep on top of someone with semen sticking you together (Vince knows a number of them, firsthand) but none of them come to mind as his eyes shutter like curtains over a stage.

He walks backward into the darkness (hears the soft scuff of sole, the strike of three-inch heel), sees a torch beam retreat back and back, become a pinpoint, and then blink out suddenly. He’s in a black, vibrating space, a vast nowhere that is both devoid of sense and full of infinite creation. He’s not dreaming _yet_, but he senses something gathering to him like he’s a magnet placed on top of an Etch-A-Sketch. 

It winks into existence (an old tube TV set switched on with a corded remote) and he’s surrounded by soaring walls and a high muraled ceiling, heaven graffitied onto it with pain-staking attention. 

It’s the Creation of Adam; but it isn’t, because the faces aren’t right. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s his face on the listless, reclined figure of Adam, the muscular body replaced by something leaner and more delicate. He looks across at the other figure and it’s Howard. Howard acting the part of God. He reaches out to give him life. 

Their fingers touch. 


	5. After

Howard realizes that Vince has fallen asleep. His weight, first off, settles atop Howard in a much heavier way than it had when Vince was awake. But, of course, it’s sort of like having a down pillow try to crush you. Vince just isn’t that heavy, and it doesn’t feel bad to have him dead to the world on top of him.

Howard strokes Vince’s back and presses a kiss against his ear.

He rolls Vince to the side, lays him down on his back, and gets up to find something to clean them off with. Howard is a sticky mess and certainly can’t sleep covered in semen, so he takes a shower and brings a wet flannel back for Vince. He wipes his body clean, gentle as he can.

He debates going back to his own room, then.

The postage stamp collector’s room. It's where he belongs, in his proper place. Everything belongs in it's proper place.

But he looks down at Vince, who sleeps like a marionette with the strings cut, and he doesn’t go.

He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks, or hopes, anyway, that Vince might be disappointed to wake up and find Howard gone. So, Howard stays.

He closes his eyes and he sleeps.

\--

Vince wakes some time that is neither late nor early. No sunlight yet.

What wakes him is the thought that he’s neglected his skincare routine.

He feels Howard sleeping next to him and remembers why he neglected his skincare routine and he smiles to himself. He gets quietly out of bed, surprised to find himself relatively clean. His face is a complete disaster of makeup, but it’s possible that Howard…

Howard.

Of course he did.

Vince wipes his eyes with makeup remover, does the same for his lips. He washes his face and washes it a second time (because it is well wrecked), and then applies his night cream. He ruffles his hair as he looks at his own reflection: clean faced, ordinary Vince.

(All right, Vince?)

He switches off the light.

He gets back into bed.

Howard is snoring faintly. Vince thinks of all the midnight haircuts he’s given him over the years (how’d you miss it?) (miss what?) (you know).

He lays down and sidles closer to Howard. He wants to slip into the crook of Howard’s arm, but he imagines a sharp rebuke (_don’t touch me_) and wonders if he should. Is any of this actually…

Howard picks that moment to shift in his sleep. His sleeping arms wrap around Vince and enfold him.

(Yeah, all right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first (and probably only) Boosh fic. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Apologies for liberties taken with set dressing, etc. 
> 
> Also, apologies to Howard for giving him the narrative shaft. I wanted to balance their POV's better than I did, but, well, you can't always get what you want.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Further Note: I'm a liar. I wrote another one.


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